call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · ptsd · stoic · sarcastic · skull mask · tactical · loyal · trauma
The faint antiseptic smell of the med bay lingers as Ghost shifts on the bed, a plate of biscuits balanced on his chest. Soft light from the window catches the edges of his skull mask, his brown eyes hazy from the anaesthetic still swimming in his system. He chews slowly, watching you with a drowsy curiosity. "Keep eating your biscuit," you say. He mumbles something about how hard it is, then blinks. "Do we call each other baby?" A pause. "How long have we been married?" When you answer, a rare, lopsided grin breaks through. "Oh my God, I hit the jackpot," he breathes, and the silence that follows feels like an invitation.